What an Earl Wants Page 31

  “I’ve never seen Thompson falter before a woman before,” Sinclair leaned in to whisper in her ear. “You felled him with your beauty.” As long as he was so close, he dropped a kiss beneath her earlobe, and another on the back of her neck, brushing her hair aside to land it in the spot that he knew from personal experience made her quiver with desire.

  This time her quivering turned to outright laughter. “What fustian. He was just startled, that’s all.” She turned in his arms, her smile fading as she gazed at him.

  He’d do anything to get her smile back. “You’ve met the other guests? Been treated well? Put your fears to rest? The women will be jealous, and the men will envy me for capturing your hand.” He raised the aforementioned hand for a kiss.

  The cut of her gown revealed the rounded tops of her breasts, and he licked his lips as he watched them rise and fall as she took a deep breath. “No, Sinclair, we can’t—”

  Someone else stepped out on the balcony, someone whose cloying perfume overwhelmed all other scents. Sinclair bit back a groan. Serena, Duchess of Warwick.

  “Josephine, you sly minx,” the duchess said, slapping Quincy on the wrist with her fan. “Trust you to find the most eligible parti in a gathering full of them.” She slid her arm possessively around Sinclair’s elbow and batted her kohl-rimmed lashes at him. “I hope you are fully recovered from your illness, my lord? You look quite virile once more.”

  Sinclair glanced from the duchess to Quincy and back again. He’d never had the chance to quiz her about her reaction to the duchess that day in the drawing room. “I was not aware you two were acquainted.”

  “Serena and I grew up in the same village,” Quincy said, rubbing her wrist. Her tone was calm, but her jaw was clenched.

  “Yes, and we always seemed to end up sharing everything,” Serena said. She brought her other hand up, imprisoning Sinclair’s arm. “How is your new secretary working out, my lord? A fascinating fellow, I hear.”

  Sinclair resisted the urge to squeeze her lovely neck until her face turned blue. “He’s gone. No longer in my employ.”

  Serena opened her eyes wide. “Gone? But I’m sure he hasn’t gone very far.” She leaned closer, all but rubbing her body against his. “I’m sure he could come back. Why don’t we meet tomorrow to discuss it, hmm? Just you and I.” She ran her tongue along her upper lip, then her full bottom lip.

  Sinclair’s stomach lurched.

  “Are you sure your husband won’t miss your company?” Quincy batted her eyelashes at the duchess, her expression innocent.

  Another couple stepped onto the balcony. As everyone shuffled to make room, Quincy tugged on Sinclair’s free arm. “Excuse us, your grace,” she said, “but Lady Sinclair is signaling for us. We’ll have to continue our discussion later.”

  Sinclair disengaged Serena’s fingers from his arm and followed Quincy back into the drawing room. Once inside, Quincy let go and ducked under Grimshaw and his passing tray of champagne glasses. By the time Sinclair did a pas de deux to keep from colliding with the footman, Quincy had disappeared in the crowd.

  Sinclair searched every group, every cluster of people, but Quincy was nowhere to be found. Admitting defeat, he headed for the pianoforte. Luckily the song had just ended. “Mama,” he hissed, sitting beside her on the bench, “how could you invite that…that…duchess into our home?”

  Lady Sinclair closed the lid over the keys. “I thought you had invited her. Is something wrong? I saw Jo leave and she did not look happy. Whatever did you say to her?”

  “I say, old chum,” the silver-haired gentleman said, leaning around Lady Sinclair. “Is something amiss?”

  “Coddy, dear, my son is just being obtuse. Again.” She pinned Sinclair with a grim stare. “Whatever it is, fix it.”

  Sinclair groaned and stood up. “Fix it, indeed,” he muttered as he ducked out the door and headed for the back stairs. For the love of Juno, how was he to fix this mess?

  Quincy marched back to the Fitzwater’s house alone, ignoring the stares from other pedestrians, her broad strides straining the seams in her new gown. How dare Serena? How dare she! Serena had always gotten what she wanted. She had never shared with Quincy, she simply took. And then batted her long lashes and got away with it.

  Well, not this time. She wasn’t getting Sinclair.

  Fate had conspired to keep Quincy from having Sinclair, but that didn’t mean her childhood nemesis could have him, either. Quincy thought back to the petty tyrant Serena had been as a young girl, thought of the pain she’d inflicted on Sinclair when she’d cruelly spurned his offer, calling him a cripple. It was past time for the tart to receive her comeuppance. Quincy was just the person to dish it out.

  By the time Quincy reached her rented rooms, she had devised a plan. She headed straight for Grandmère’s chamber and pulled the trunks out from under the bed. Quincy riffled through them until she found the ribbon-bound bundle of paper. “Sorry, Grandmère,” she said, untying the faded cords, “but I’m sure you’ll understand.” Quincy thumbed through the stack, past the missives from her grandfather, past the wedding and birth announcements, until she found the obituary. She paused for a moment, reading the long-memorized lines about her mother and still-born brother.

  “I haven’t forgotten my promise, laddie,” she said with a faint smile, looking up. “As soon as I get to heaven, I fully intend to throttle you for leaving us in this predicament.”

  Quincy set back to work. Stacked beneath the obituary were the letters and notes of sympathy, including the one she sought.

  “Bless your excruciatingly correct parents, Serena,” Quincy whispered. She read the very proper message of sympathy from the Doughty family. At the bottom of the neatly penned note were the signatures of the earl and countess, and their daughter Serena.

  By the light of a single candle, Quincy practiced the loops and swirls until she had it just right, hoping the adult Serena’s handwriting had not changed much. White paper would never do, she decided. Riffling through Grandmère’s things once more, Quincy found her stash. Lavender, yellow, pink. Grandmère had pink paper? Lavender would be best. And for the pièce de résistance, Quincy chose the most exotic-smelling of Grandmère’s tiny bottles of scent.

  My dearest Sinclair, Quincy wrote. Why don’t we meet tomorrow to continue our discussion? Just you and I. You know where and when. Quincy signed Serena’s name with a flourish, added a drop of perfume, and sealed it with drips from the melting candle.

  Not bad. Besides, with any luck, Serena’s husband had never seen her handwriting beyond signing the parish register after their wedding. The Duke of Warwick didn’t seem the type to write billets-doux, and Serena’s goal had been to inspire them, not pen them herself.

  Now for the real problem—getting the note into the duke’s hand. Could she risk dressing as Mr. Quincy and delivering it to his club herself? No, too many people knew that Cousin Joseph had left town. She needed a co-conspirator, someone unknown to the duke or Serena.

  Sam the butcher, or his sons? Melinda would have to ask him, since Joseph was officially gone and Mel had taken over giving the lessons. No, they would all ask too many questions.

  That left…Thompson. Quincy cringed. He had been a tad surprised upon seeing her tonight, but at least he hadn’t said anything. Well, nothing coherent, anyway. And he apparently hadn’t collected on his wager with Grimshaw. She wrote a note to Thompson and wrapped it around the duke’s note, along with a couple of coins. She went out into the hall and found one of Fitzwater’s footmen, the one who often winked at Mel, and gave him another coin in exchange for his promise to deliver the package into Thompson’s hands.

  Quite pleased with herself, and suddenly exhausted, Quincy shucked off her new gown and fripperies, pulled on a night rail, and was sound asleep before the other ladies came home.

  She awoke the next morning with a pounding headache and second thoughts. The note put Sinclair in a bad light. Stupid, stupid, stupid, she should have addressed i
t to “my dearest lover” or similar drivel. What if the duke took umbrage with Sinclair? He might call him out, they’d fight a duel, they could both be hurt. Or worse. Both men were innocent in the affair. Well, the duke had shown poor judgment in marrying Serena in the first place, but still…

  She had to get the note back from Thompson. Now.

  And there was one more thing. The interlude on the balcony last night proved she was not immune to Sinclair’s charm. He could easily seduce her into marriage, and everything she had tried to avoid would come crashing down around their ears anyway. Serena’s threat had made it clear how easily Sinclair, and his mother and friends, could be hurt if she continued to associate with them. She wouldn’t put them through it. Wouldn’t put him through it. No one else should be punished for choices she had made.

  With a sinking heart, she realized the only way to avoid it now was to leave. Never see Sinclair again. She clutched her stomach.

  She had the profit from her investments. If she was frugal, made a shrewd bargain, she could still buy a cottage and furnish it. Move Mel and her grandmother to the countryside, away from Serena’s venom.

  “Good morning, Grandmère,” Quincy called, entering the kitchen after she’d dressed.

  “Where did you go so suddenly last night, miss? I’m not in the habit of making excuses for you. And why are my things strewn all over my room?” Grandmère sat at the table, holding out her teacup for Mel to refill. The lines etched on the elder woman’s face seemed deeper than usual. Quincy winced.

  “You missed seeing Serena last night,” Mel said, bringing out another cup for Quincy. “Did you know she married a duke?”

  “No, and yes.” She accepted the filled cup and faced her grandmother. “I did not miss Serena last night, and she did not miss me. Nor did she miss Mr. Quincy a fortnight ago when she paid a call on Sinclair.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  Mel fell into her chair. “She recognized you? Oh my.”

  “Yes. Oh my.” Quincy related the essentials of their meeting last night, and Serena’s request of Sinclair. Her audience made suitable noises of disgust and dismay.

  When Quincy finished, Grandmère spoke quietly. “Are you going to let her affect your decision in regards to Sinclair’s offer?”

  Quincy bit her lip. “How early can we pay a call to thank our hostess?”

  Grandmère frowned.

  “You still haven’t explained the mess you made in Grandmère’s room,” Melinda said.

  Grandmère’s eyes suddenly widened. “My colored paper. Tell me you didn’t.”

  “I did. I merely repeated Serena’s words, and added a few of my own.”

  It was Mel’s turn to frown. “What are you talking about?”

  “Jo’s been practicing her creative penmanship again.”

  “On colored paper?” Mel squealed in delight. “You sent a note to the Duke of Warwick?”

  “But now I realize it may not have been the wisest course of action, and I need to go to Sinclair’s to get it back.”

  “I cannot believe Lord Sinclair agreed to participate in such a scheme!”

  “Of course not. He knows nothing about it, and I’d like to keep it that way. May we go now?”

  “You can’t go anywhere looking like that, Jo,” Mel said, standing up and looking at Quincy’s back. “You’ve done up your buttons all crooked.”

  Quincy rolled her eyes in disgust. “Well, the back is a foolish place to put them!”

  Grandmère and Mel shared a chuckle at Quincy’s expense, then resisted all her attempts to hurry them. Two hours passed before they left to pay a call on Lady Sinclair, and even then, Grandmère warned, it was still too early to be quite proper.

  “Lady Sinclair will join you shortly,” Harper said, ushering them into the salon. His butler’s mask was firmly in place, though Quincy caught him casting surreptitious glances at her.

  She winked at him. He stumbled on the edge of the carpet on his way out.

  The three had barely seated themselves when Lady Sinclair bustled in and rang for a tea tray. “It’s my son, isn’t it?” she said grimly, coming to sit beside Quincy. “What did the beast say or do to you? Tell me, and we’ll make it right.” She took Quincy’s hands into her own, patting them.

  “No, my lady, you don’t understand,” Quincy began.

  “It’s the Duchess of Warwick who is being beastly,” Mel piped up.

  Quincy shot her a quelling look. Lady Sinclair turned to Mel in surprise.

  “Warwick, you say?” Lady Sinclair frowned. “I don’t usually repeat servants’ gossip, but”—the Quincy women leaned closer as Lady Sinclair lowered her voice—“the duchess’ maid was dismissed by the duke himself last night. Their graces had a shocking row; woke up the entire household. Then they became completely silent, and—” Lady Sinclair looked to make sure she had everyone’s attention—“no one has seen the duchess since.”

  Melinda and Grandmère gasped. Quincy felt the blood drain from her face. What fateful acts had she set in motion?

  Lady Sinclair took a sip of tea. “The duke told her grace’s maid that they had no more need of her services, and sent her on her way with a purse full of coins.”

  Quincy felt sick. Melinda and Grandmère spoke at once.

  “What do you suppose—”

  “You don’t think he really—”

  “Stop!” Quincy shouted. She rested her shaking hands on her lap. “I don’t wish to hear any more of the Warwicks’ affairs, if you please.”

  “Of course not. Forgive me for bringing it up.” Lady Sinclair patted Quincy’s hand. “Now, my dear, what did my son—”

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  They turned in unison at the male voice, to see Lord Palmer entering the room.

  “Hope you don’t mind the intrusion, Lady Sinclair. Just popped in to see your son, but he ain’t in the library.”

  “Not at all, Lord Palmer. Do join us.” Lady Sinclair rang for a fresh pot of tea. “I’m afraid it may be a while before he returns. He went out for one of his long walks this morning.”

  Palmer had sat down, but rose again. “That being the case, I’ll catch up to him at our club, and leave you lovely ladies to your coze.” He tipped his hat and left.

  Quincy groaned. She had to get out of here. It would be hours before she could speak to Sinclair. Hours during which her relatives, and Lady Sinclair, would try to talk her out of her decision to reject Sinclair. And what on earth could the duke have done to Serena? She had only wanted Serena given a set-down. She wanted the hussy out of the way, not six feet under. If the duke had taken drastic action because of her note, Quincy would never forgive herself. He didn’t deserve to hang.

  “Now then, where were we? Ah, yes, my son.” Lady Sinclair patted Quincy’s knee.

  “If you’ll excuseme, I, um…” Quincy stood and edged toward the door. “I just remembered that we left a kettle on the hearth. No, don’t worry,” she put her hand out to her grandmother and sister, who hadn’t moved, “I’ll take care of it.”

  Caught up in her thoughts, she didn’t even notice which servant opened the front door for her and wished her a good day. She jumped when Palmer spoke to her on the sidewalk.

  “I understand felicitations are in order, Miss Quincy.”

  Quincy stared at him, openmouthed.

  “I know it has not been formally announced yet, but Sinclair has asked me to stand up with him as his best man.”

  “H-he has?”

  Palmer nodded. His coach pulled up then, and he gestured for his coachman to follow as he fell into step with Quincy. “I am gratified to see the changes wrought in him since making your acquaintance, Miss Quincy. He is once again the jolly fellow I remember from our school days. And the changes in his mother are even more remarkable.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But I must confess I am concerned. I fear his past relationship with a certain secretary could mar his chances for long-term happiness, should anyo
ne learn the true nature of that relationship.”

  Quincy held her hands to her aching stomach. “I don’t know what to say, my lord,” she said, wishing her voice wouldn’t shake, “other than to assure you that Lord Sinclair’s future is of as much concern to me as it is to you. I would never pursue my happiness at the expense of another’s.”

  “Just as I thought,” Palmer said, raising her hand to kiss the air above her knuckles. “I admire the courage of your convictions. Good day, Miss Quincy.”

  “Good day, Lord Palmer.” Quincy watched him climb into his carriage, then walked home in a daze, her thoughts going in a dozen different directions.

  Was Serena really dead? If she and the threat that she presented were gone, was there anything to prevent Quincy from marrying Sinclair?

  Thompson and Wilford could probably be persuaded to keep quiet, since neither had said anything so far, at least nothing that she knew about. Or would there be someone else who would reveal Quincy’s secret and shatter Sinclair’s happiness?

  Maybe next week, next month, next year. Maybe never.

  Could she take that chance?

  Chapter 23

  “Y ou’re just in time, miss,” said Lady Fitzwater’s footman as he let Quincy into the house. “They’ve just gone in to luncheon.”

  “But I’m not expected.”

  “Anybody who’s about the house is expected, miss.”

  Quincy followed him to the dining room, where Lady Fitzwater, two other women, and Miss Stanbury, one of Lady Fitzwater’s boarders, were being served.

  “Miss Quincy!” Lady Fitzwater called. “How good of you to join us. May I introduce Miss Pippen and Miss Jesperson, dear friends of Miss Stanbury?”

  Before Quincy finished the how-do-you-dos, the footmen had set her place and brought her soup. The meal passed quickly in congenial conversation, and Quincy allowed herself to be distracted from her earlier introspection. She was caught up as their discussion moved from dealing with coal porters and other merchants to the benefits and possible dangers as more gas lines were laid in London. Miss Jesperson had recently invested a portion of her pension in a gas works, and shared the results of her research.